What shocked audiences when it opened in 1995 – but precisely what has made Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake iconic – are the male swans.

The audience holds their breath.

Deliciously erotic, athletic, bare-torso-ed man-swans – stunningly dressed in feathered britches – sweep across the moonlit stage in the City Park scene; the lake glistening in the background.

I am riveted.

Both vicious and heartbreakingly graceful, the swans contort and hiss in unison, posturing in strong silences, rolling their necks, shaking a feathered leg, then leaping across the mist-infused scene.

They run swan-circles around The Prince (and the mesmerised audience) adopting classical lines, then shredding them in an instant with their feather-plumping and ruffling, hands as beaks; arms – wing-shaped.

The feather-clad clan is irresistible and magical.

Bourne’s version of the famous Dance of the Cygnets is outstanding, turning the classical pas de quatre on its head.

Four swans stomp comically onto the stage, a satirical take on the original ballet, in which the cygnets are uniformly identical.

These swans teeter on the classical, but not for long, as they break apart, leap and twist, separate and regroup.

The touching pas-de-deux between The Prince (Dominic North) and The Swan, is splendidly balanced between soft, sensuous lifts and residual hissing from a delightfully untameable Westwell.

In true Bourne style, just as you think your heart may break with the bestial beauty of the scene – The Prince rejoicing in his passionate awakening – an elderly head-scarfed woman – shopping trolley in tow – walks into the park to feed the birds.

Bourne toys with our hearts, and we gladly let him.

Like the Odette/Odile roles, Westwell plays both The Swan and The Stranger, dominating the ballroom scene in Act 3.

In leather pants – The Stranger makes his entrance balancing on the balcony balustrade, before entering the ballroom in a gust of testosterone.

He seduces The Queen – at the cruel expense of her son – and brazenly flirts with virtually every guest; bewitching the women and driving their partners into jealous frenzies.

The Prince-Swan pas de deux which follows, contrasts beautifully to the gentle lake-scene duet.

Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake

Unbridled passion – matched by restraint and swan-hissing rebuff – lock the two in a red-blooded, emotional struggle and The Prince is lost in this tortuous tussle with desire itself.

In a giddying display of fury and jealousy, The Prince grabs a gun and threatens to shoot his mother. Ridiculed; driven to madness, he is dragged off.

The ballroom scene is sumptuous with its impeccable costuming and eclectic dance styles, but nothing exceeds the finale.

It is the closing act that clenches my heart, leaving its delectable swan-print on my mind.

As The Prince sleeps, swans begin to appear from under his bed.

They swing in from behind the giant headboard, stealthily creeping in from all sides, invading his sleep – swarm-like.

They mount the bed; sniff at him, haunt him; the tension mounting as the swans hiss threateningly, mouths agape, in an arm-flapping, swan infestation.

Gripping stuff indeed and a fine climax to the evening, as the dying Prince is reunited with The Swan, held in his arms for eternity – suspended; dream-like.

The strength of Bourne’s Swan Lake is the amalgamation of the theatrical, comic and tragic in perfect doses.

The elegant poise of the Swan is acknowledged, but it is the bestial ferocity and unpredictability of these dazzling dancing creatures which sets Bourne’s unique version of Swan Lake apart.

I am delighted to say I will never see a park-full of swans in the same light again.